


guide me home

by FaultyParagon



Series: Fair Game Weekend 2020 [2]
Category: RWBY
Genre: Angst, Astronavigation, Blizzards & Snowstorms, Blood and Injury, Clover Ebi-centric, Day 2: Scars/Stars, Eventual Romance, Fair Game Weekend (RWBY), First Aid, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, M/M, Navigating with Stars, Podfic Available, Podfic Length: 20-30 Minutes, Rated for a Few Swears, Romance, Scar Worship, Scars, Sexual Tension, Stars, Stranded, fair game, fairgameweekend2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-03
Updated: 2020-10-03
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:20:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26572846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FaultyParagon/pseuds/FaultyParagon
Summary: Clover has always felt comfortable navigating the darkness of Solitas thanks to his practice with celestial navigation. In a storm, however, those skills are useless....or maybe not. The sky is sometimes a battered body, and stars are always beautiful, no matter the form.-aka Clover and Qrow are stranded, Qrow is injured and Clover is unable to move on. Fair Game. Written for Fair Game Weekend 2020 Day 2: Scars/Stars, using both prompts.
Relationships: Qrow Branwen & Clover Ebi, Qrow Branwen/Clover Ebi
Series: Fair Game Weekend 2020 [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1932736
Comments: 10
Kudos: 53





	guide me home

**Author's Note:**

> Day 2: Scars/Stars. Both prompts have been used.
> 
> Podfic is available!  
> [Part 1](https://faultyparagonfiction.tumblr.com/post/630971555831250944/podfic-for-part-13-of-guide-me-home-by) \- [Part 2](https://faultyparagonfiction.tumblr.com/post/630971583037685760/podfic-for-part-23-of-guide-me-home-by) \- [Part 3](https://faultyparagonfiction.tumblr.com/post/630971592565981184/podfic-for-part-33-of-guide-me-home-by)

_The sky is nothing but a map with which to guide ourselves home._

Clover has believed in this statement his entire life; his earliest memories do not reflect the posh white walls of his childhood home, but instead the tundra of Solitas upon the outskirts of Mantle, tucked away in the little cottage where his father and his friends used to go ice-fishing when Clover was a child. He remembers sitting swaddled up in more blankets than anyone knew how to pack into their bags, looking out into the distance with his father’s laughter echoing through the air, the embers of the dying fire and the faint glow of fire-Dust heat generators warming their little fishing spot. Ice-fishing never was as engaging as looking up at the stars back then, because away from Atlas’ shadow and the fiery lights of Mantle, one can see the stars spilling through the cosmos in every direction like pebbles glittering upon a shore, and Clover has learned to love, memorize, respect, every single one.

After all, the stars are not merely decoration. Celestial navigation is not exactly the most common way to get around- the other members of the Ace Ops have given him lip for not bothering to download maps when exploring new areas of Mantle on solo missions time and time again- but Clover has always been comfortable with it, for he knows exactly which constellations to seek no matter where he is. Following a sea of stars will always bring him back to where he needs to go.

At least, before Qrow Branwen, that is.

“I’m- this was definitely my fault,” he murmurs, peeking out of the tiny entranceway they have crawled through in order to find this shelter within rocky, rough walls. “I should not have taken a chance with this mission like that- not with you coming along.”

“Glad to hear it’s my damn fault that things have gone south,” Qrow grumbles in response. Clover winces as he hears Qrow plop himself down heavily upon the rock, a jarring, resounding crack filling the air as he snaps open one of their emergency heat generators. The baton lights up instantly thanks to the cracked powder tube, the crystal within slowly disintegrating, instantly filling the tiny cavern with warmth.

Clover shivers anyways, peeking out at the raging storm outside. He cannot see the sky; what is visible is naught but a thick layer of white, clouds so stuffed with snow and weight within turbulent forms that it has all decided to come crashing down in this one moment. They are lucky to have found this tiny rocky outcropping, for the cave within shall provide them shelter; out in the snow, they likely would not have had a chance.

He checks his Scroll. No signal. _Not like I would know the coordinates anyways,_ he thinks bitterly. _I should’ve listened to Bree before I left and just downloaded a localized map rather than relying on the comms._

What’s done is done, however, and he must reap the consequences- or, in this case, face Qrow’s anger.

It is justified, after all. He is not used to his luck failing so spectacularly, the odds landing completely out of his favour that evening. _I guess Qrow’s Semblance is more powerful than mine._

He wouldn’t be surprised if that were the case. The elder is the more powerful Huntsman in general, so it would make sense if his Aura was stronger, too. Clover still hates admitting it, though- how this depressed, grouchy older man could be so deft upon the battlefield still baffles him- and yet, he can understand why James has placed so much faith within Qrow Branwen. He certainly feels more confident with Qrow by his side, too.

Even if his luck will bring them ruin.

“I’m not saying it’s your fault at all, Qrow,” he replies as calmly as possible, retreating from the entrance of the cave. The scathing, weary glare Qrow sends his way stings, but he explains anyways, “Look- I should have ensured I had the map for this area available. I didn’t think a storm would blow in during the fight like that.”

Qrow sighs, leaning back against the wall as comfortably as he can, propping one knee up and resting his arm upon it. “Aren’t you supposed to be the prepared one, Mr. ‘Good-luck-charm’?” The bitterness in his voice is no stranger to Clover; since their mission in the mines together a few weeks ago, Qrow has always found a way to insert this anger into his voice. It is passive-aggressive and snide and sour, but Clover finds that he cannot even blame the elder; thanks to their opposing luck, the two men are two sides of the same coin, but it has never been a fair game. He understands Qrow’s bitterness towards him, even if he wishes it could be different.

After all, he has seen the man interact with his nieces. Qrow’s smile with them is one of the sweetest things he has ever seen. Clover holds no hope to ever really see that smile aimed at himself, though.

Quietly, Clover relents, taking a seat on the opposite side of the small cave. Stretching his legs outwards, he has to bend his knees so as to not hit Qrow in the cramped area; that is the least of his concerns, though, as Qrow adds, “How do you usually get out of situations like these here?”

“We wait out the storm. We have rations for a reason, and it’s not like the Grimm shall stick around with this storm.” He snorts wryly, remembering the way Teryxes and Sabyrs had fled without hesitation once the winds had begun to pick up, causing the heavy snowfall to become a veritable whiteout, erasing the earth and the sky in favour of leaving naught but a painfully-bright field of ivory to blind them all. “Even they can’t make heads or tails of blizzards on Solitas.”

“… getting stuck out here like this- you do it often?”

For a moment, he considers lying. Then, he sighs and admits, “No. I haven’t needed to. My luck, remember?”

The bitterness turns to shame in an instant upon the elder’s features, twisting a handsome visage into something more disheartening than anything. “I… fuck, I’m sorry.”

Clover shrugs. “It’s okay- we got the distress signal out before comms crashed, so we should be able to receive a transport the moment the storm dies down. For now,” and he winks, a vain attempt to ease the tension, “let’s just be thankful that our packs weren’t cut loose during the fight, and we have enough supplies to wait this out.”

Qrow hums noncommittally in response. It’s better than Clover could have hoped for. They’re not close, after all. If the elder isn’t complaining the entire time for being stuck with Clover, then he shall take it.

However, Qrow then reaches forward towards his pack. Instantly, he grimaces, eyes flashing in alarm and pain. Clover shifts onto a knee, ready to act. “Qrow, what’s wrong?

Without a word, the elder begins pulling off his vest, then his dress shirt. Clover fidgets watching him, a little unsure of what to say; as Qrow’s face twists in discomfort while he contorts, however, sliding off the grey dress shirt as gingerly as possible, Clover understands. Growing from the right side of Qrow’s torso is an incredibly swollen bruise, blue and purple and red tinging the entire area. As Qrow looks down upon it, a dissatisfied frown spreading across his lips, his breath begins to grow laboured, forced.

Clover sighs, pulling out his compact first aid kit. “Your Aura?”

A quick check on their Scrolls proves that Qrow is fresh out, however. “That damn bastard Megoliath I managed to kill did a number on me,” Qrow groans, leaning back heavily against the wall, shoulders hunched in dejection as he cradles his potentially-broken ribs. His arms still hang in his sleeves, the movement causing too much discomfort now that the high of battle has faded. “Adrenaline and Aura must’ve kept me going.”

Guilt begins to gnaw at Clover’s heart. How had he not even noticed? “I’m sorry, Qrow,” he says, removing soothing ointment and painkillers from his pack. “I should’ve been there.”

The deadpan look Qrow sends him is chilling. “It’s a damn blessing my Aura ran out,” he mutters. “The heat generators would’ve been broken if my Semblance was still active.”

“Qrow-“

“It’s the truth.”

Clover presses his lips together in a grim line. He squints, catching sight of claw marks which have barely broken the skin, of more bruises blossoming across the pale skin of Qrow’s shoulder and arm, too. “I’ll help you with those.” He lifts up his supplies to show the elder. “Move away from the wall. I’ll bandage you up.”

For a moment, Qrow looks as if he is going to protest- Clover can practically hear the elder’s rejection upon the tip of his tongue, his flash of annoyance so clear that Clover almost backs away- but eventually, the elder sits carefully away from the wall, turning on the light upon his Scroll to help Clover see what he is doing.

It takes Clover a moment to get started, though, for his breath is taken away not by the extent of the damages, but the sheer state of Qrow’s torso. Stretched overtop of built, defined muscle and lean, toned flesh is skin that is so pockmarked and scarred that Clover has no idea what the original colour could possibly be. The stretched tissue ranges from long, jagged tears, to discolorations clearly caused by burns, to tiny indents left by something Clover cannot even fathom. His entire chest and stomach, from his sternum all the way down to the trail of dark hair leading down from his bellybutton (which is also interrupted by slash marks of old), is littered with marks.

Clover’s eyes immediately hone in on the space between, the shapes of scar tissue separated by tiny pockets of pure, unmarked skin. How could one man have more scars than not?

“Having fun with the view?”

The words knock him out of his fixation, and he starts back, feeling his face heat up in momentary embarrassment. Then, he buckles down, pushing back Qrow’s open shirt to see the extent of the bruise upon his ribs. “You’re going to have to take it off,” he sighs.

Without a word, Qrow grabs Kingfisher off of Clover’s belt and holds it out to Clover. “Cut it off.”

The resolution of the elder surprises him, but Clover knows better than to be shocked. “If you say so,” Clover says quietly as he makes quick work of the warm dress shirt Qrow has worn since his arrival upon Atlas.

“I can always get another outfit,” is the banal reply, tinged with pain as Clover finally begins applying antiseptic upon some of the small wounds which litter the elder’s back.

He ensures that the fabric is kept intact as much as possible- large bandages don’t exactly fit into his tiny first aid kit, so he shall make do with grey cloth to hold gauze in place. “If you need things in the meantime,” Clover offers, “I’m sure I can lend you something-“

“I’m a _sleeves_ person, boy scout.”

Clover’s fingers freeze halfway down Qrow’s ribs, raising his brows and watching the elder with a surprised smile. “’Boy scout’?” he asks, a little incredulous, brushing over the snide comment about his workplace attire.

Qrow shrugs, looking away. “You act like a goody-two-shoes. Damn Atlas brats.”

In that one moment, Clover’s eyes hone in on the pink tinging Qrow’s ears, and the tension eases away just like that. He snorts, rolling his eyes. “You- I’m barely younger than you!” he cries, moving on to applying a topical anti-inflammatory. It is just a temporary fix, but until Qrow has rested enough to recover his Aura, there is no point in leaving the man to suffer.

Qrow harrumphs, clearly flustered by his own slip of the tongue. Clover doesn’t mind, feeling lighter than he has all morning; the way thin lips pout is oddly charming, he finds, as the elder looks away.

He has much practice going through these motions for his team members, although he has rarely been on the receiving end. Soon enough, the elder’s wounds are bandaged and painkillers have been both applied and consumed, leaving Qrow to rest wearily back so that he may recover his strength. Clover is quick to hand the elder his pack as a pillow, leaning up against the wall beside him, settling in so that he can keep an eye on the storm raging outside. There is naught but pure white still visible, the howling winds roaring outside with little remorse.

They sit in silence for how long, Clover does not know; however, eventually the quiet needs to be broken, for Clover’s curiosity must be sated. “What’s the story behind all those scars?”

“Nothing, really. My life isn’t exactly interesting,” is the quiet, haggard reply.

“I’d beg to differ.” Clover lightly pats Qrow’s shoulder, where an array of pockmarked holes have dug into his skin, almost as if he has been speared by needles and pulled apart. “Qrow, I’d understand a few, and I understand that you’ve been a Huntsman for a long time, but… these are a _lot.”_

Sighing as if the world rests upon his shoulders, Qrow runs long, lean fingers across Clover’s handiwork. Then, he points at the marks upon his shoulder which Clover has pointed out. “A Centinel’s poison,” he explains. “Acid drops.” His fingers move downwards to a large burn scar upon his bicep. “An explosion of fire-Dust. Thank God my Aura ran out- I’m lucky to have made it out alive.”

“Did everyone else…?”

“Dead.”

Clover sighs. He knows that kind of heartache far too well. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s an old story.” His gaze grows somber, resolute. “I just hope Yang and Ruby never deal with that kind of thing.”

Clover smiles humourlessly, packing up his supplies now that his treatment is complete. “I mean… they lived through the Fall, didn’t they?”

Qrow snorts, just as sardonic as before. “Yeah, and fat lot of good that did them- missing an arm, missing their friends, full of trauma.” His head lolls back to rest against the wall, fatigue clear as day upon his face. “I… I wish it could’ve been different.”

_We all wish._

Before Clover can voice that thought, however, Qrow’s fingers continue their movement, landing upon his abdomen. “A Beowulf when I was a kid- my sister who decided to try to murder me when I called her out for abandoning our team-“ Clover does a double-take, startled by the way Qrow so easily glosses over that phrase, continuing, “-a bad match against three King Taijitus- a mishap in the Vytal Festival one year-“ And he goes on and on, easily reciting the source of every single scar from memory, as if he has sung these words in his sleep a thousand times before. The monotony of it stings more than the actual injuries themselves, although in any other situation, the words which Qrow says so nonchalantly would elicit endless horror within Clover; each scar is described as nothing more than something to check off a list, a set of groceries he needs to pick up on the way home.

It is as if Qrow has forgotten what it feels like to feel _whole,_ for he has been broken and patched together again far too many times for it to even sting anymore. How can this possibly be the norm for anyone?

Yet, the longer Qrow speaks, voice haggard and weary, spilling from his lips like slow lullabies amidst the whiteout beyond their tiny natural shelter, Clover finds that his horror dissipates, leaving behind nothing but fascination. In the light of Qrow’s Scroll and the fire-Dust, it is almost like a reverse night sky- the voids left by wounds of the past are dark, standing out starkly against pale skin.

Clover knows how to read star charts, how to tell his way from the constellations.

Before he can stop himself, he kneels in front of the injured man, bringing up his hand to lightly brush against the elder’s shoulders. It is not out of any kind of desire, nor out of curiosity; it is simply habit, to run his fingers along the trails between points in the sky, to memorize with his fingertips the movement, the distance, the shimmer and shine and size of each individual point.

This is how he always guides himself home, after all.

But this map does not lead him anywhere but through Qrow’s past. He can see the way the marks have faded over time, the older scars almost aligning with unbroken skin save for the faint outlines which will remain indelible forever; he can place the weapons used to injure the other man to the marks left behind, matching up Qrow’s apathetic words with the pain he undoubtedly would have experienced at the time.

In order for Huntsmen to accumulate scars, their Aura needs to run out. Clover can count on one hand the amount of times he has been brought to that point in his entire career with the Atlesian military; and yet, here Qrow is with far too many scars to count, having lived through hell and back. The resilience required for such a feat is awe-inspiring.

_Just how powerful are you, Qrow Branwen?_

It is only when he hears Qrow’s breath hitching slightly that Clover becomes aware of what he is doing. Immediately, he pulls away, sheepish and flustered. “I- that wasn’t exactly appropriate,” he chuckles clumsily, attempting to salvage the situation. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

To his surprise, Qrow does not bark at him in response. He simply looks back towards the heat generator, mumbling, “It’s okay. I know they’re a lot.” He snorts dryly. “Ruby used to do that a lot- ask for all the stories behind them all.”

“Would you tell her?”

“Yes and no,” Qrow admits. “She deserved to know what the life of a Huntress entailed. She didn’t need to know that I was weak, though.” His eyes cloud over. “She was able to figure that out plenty on her own.”

With Qrow exposed like this, Clover cannot tear his eyes away. The longer they sit there, the longer he feels as if the scars are beckoning his touch, a map which he longs to memorize in this time where he can no longer see the sky.

Qrow catches his longing look, spluttering, “What’s the issue?”

Clover sighs, finally dragging himself back to lean against the wall. “I- it’s silly,” he says, feeling humiliation begin to roil within his gut.

“Spit it out.”

“…your scars- they all just, in a weird way, remind me of-“

And then, his Scroll beeps.

Instantly, Clover opens up the device, sighing in relief. It has begun attempting to re-establish their communications with the base. In the meanwhile, he needs to figure out exactly where their battle had led them to; while the trackers on their Scrolls would be able to give their rescue team enough information, having precise coordinates is always better than nothing.

He goes to the entrance of their alcove without a word, ready to survey the situation. Outside, the winds have finally begun to die down, the clouds dissipating now that they have been relieved of their burdens. The duo have been trapped within that cave for almost two hours, and the snow which has built up in their absence is more than a little substantial; thankfully, as keen eyes look over the horizon, there is not a Grimm in sight, nor can he sense any with his Aura. They are safe to escape.

Qrow has thrown on his vest so as to not be completely exposed as he faces the elements, shivering anyways the moment he manages to leave the cave. At least he has the good sense to bring the heat generator with him, clipping it to his belt- the proximity instantly begins to soften the ice which has accumulated over the past few hours, sending their feet sinking further into slush than what is ideal. Instantly, Clover opens up his pack and wraps the compressed emergency blanket around the elder’s shoulders, keeping him warm until their extraction can take place.

“When did the sun set?” Qrow murmurs, squinting up at the canopy of stars which glitter above them.

Clover grins, pointing up at the stars. “Who knows? But now at least I know I can get us back to Atlas.”

The doubtful glint in Qrow’s eyes is visible even in near darkness, eliciting a chuckle from Clover. “Trust me,” he says gently, placing a hand on Qrow’s blanket-covered back. “I’m good at celestial navigation.”

Qrow blinks at him, baffled. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Orienteering with stars.”

And then, Qrow doubles over, wincing as his ribs protest while laughter begins to rumble past his lips, thick and hearty and full. “Are you serious?” he chuckles, wiping his eyes through pained breaths. “You really are a boy scout, goddammit-“ He freezes, a brilliant, disbelieving smile crossing his face as he adds, “Wait, is that why you didn’t have the map?”

Clover can feel his blush extending down into his neck and chest, his entire torso growing flushed from embarrassment. “…maybe.”

And Qrow laughs again, but Clover finds that he does not mind it- the joy is refreshing, sweet, even. There is a sense of lightness in the air that he has yet to truly feel with the elder, as if they have finally found even ground at last.

Once Qrow has finally been able to recover his breath, he comments, “So, what were you going to say in there?” At Clover’s confusion, Qrow merely nudges his arm lightly with his elbow. “About why you kept staring.”

Clover sighs, but he is no longer uncomfortable, somehow finding the ease within himself to admit, “Your scars- they’re kind of like the stars.”

A pause. “What?”

He points at the sky, the glittering tapestries woven by distant lights illuminating their way now that the clouds have cleared. “I just… it reminds of the stars. I’m not really sure why.”

Despite his honesty, Qrow’s face falls, a flash of heartbreak running across his face before incredulity sets in. “I’m sorry, _stars?_ Pain isn’t supposed to be- be romanticized,” he hisses, immediately withdrawing.

Clover’s instinct is to flee, to give himself space to try again. For some reason, he doesn’t do that, simply shrugging. “You’re right. It’s not. But,” and he beckons the elder along a few paces, for the heat generator hung between them is melting the ice far too much now for them to retain solid footing if they don’t stay mobile, “it’s a great way to keep yourself grounded. Our problems don’t seem that bad when you realize that all of those lights are impossibly far away.” He can see Qrow’s ensuing eye roll without even needing to look, smiling automatically in response. “And, if you know them well enough, you’ll always know how to get home- or, in your case,” he adds, turning to face the elder properly, “you’ll always know how far you’ve come.

Those words cause something to click within Qrow. His expression softens like nothing else, years falling away from his face as Qrow finally, truly takes his words into consideration without holding up his guard. “Oh,” he breathes, raising his eyes to look up at the night sky as if for the first time, wonderment slowly filling crimson eyes.

Clover grins, allowing the elder that moment of peace. He recognizes that look- he knows he has worn it himself time and time again.

Finally, he continues, “There’s… there’s no shame in scars. Ever.” Clover is almost shocked at the certainty, the earnestness, of his own words. “They’re the badge of a true Huntsman.”

“…how do you figure?”

He shrugs, glancing up at Qrow through his lashes. The glow of their heat generator paints a lovely orange-gold tint onto Qrow’s normally pale, gaunt skin, flushing him with a life and colour that he has never seen on the elder.

For the first time, Clover realizes that Qrow is actually quite handsome- not just in general, for that was obvious from the start, but to _Clover._ Qrow Branwen looks _good._

Before he can stop himself, his fingers reach out, landing upon scar tissue. He pauses as he hears Qrow suck in a sharp breath, but does not bother to hold back, fingertips slowly tracing up smooth, defined muscle not covered up by bandages. Quietly, he murmurs, “They prove that you’re still here. You’ve made mistakes, and you’ve clearly learned from them, and you didn’t run away.” With a wry smile, he adds, “I wish I could say mine were as impressive, but sadly my luck’s taken away any chances to build a collection like yours.”

Qrow’s lips quirk up in an uncharacteristically gentle smile, a sense of easy, comfortable warmth growing over his features. “A little unfair that you’ve gotten to see mine but I haven’t gotten to judge yours, right?”

Clover snorts, then chuckles, then freezes as those words settle over him. Heat rises into his cheeks, his ears absolutely burning to the touch, the implications in Qrow’s drawl and rolling eyes and quirked smile striking him at the core. His mouth opens, but no words come out- how could he possibly respond?

It seems that Qrow does not realize what exactly he has said either until he notices just how flustered Clover has become, for crimson eyes widen just a fraction too late for him to save any face; the elder splutters, holding up his hands in innocence, the glow upon his cheeks no longer solely coming from the fire-Dust generators. Then, Qrow pauses, gaze focused upon Clover for one haunting moment, eyes locked, hearts bared.

Although his throat is thick and his mouth is dry and his confidence is suddenly nonexistent, Clover readies himself to speak- to try and reach out, to explain himself, to ask for clarification, to _agree-_

But his Scroll beeps, the familiar ping of a re-established connection filling the air.

Qrow averts his eyes as Clover picks up the communications from the nearest relay tower, sending off their newly-found coordinates to their retrieval crew. If the Grimm remain, they shall not be out to play in this quadrant, at least; they are free to return to Atlas to warm up properly, now that the blizzard has begun to die down.

He does not know where he finds the strength, the _audacity,_ to speak as he does; and yet, the words, “If you’d like, I’d be happy to show you my own back in Atlas- when we’re finally someplace a little warmer,” spill forth from his lips. They are almost flirtatious, lilting- hopeful.

What he hopes for, he doesn’t exactly know.

Qrow takes a moment to gawp at him, completely taken by surprise by his bold assertion. Then, he throws his head back, almost carefree as he lets out a long, hearty laugh, the sound rumbling up from his belly, so affectionate and amused that it knocks Clover off-balance in awe. “I thought the cold didn’t bother you,” the elder replies, watching him with a wry smile.

Clover shrugs, picking up Kingfisher and hooking it into its holster. The familiar action is soothing, comfortable, familiar, unlike Qrow’s sudden smirk. “You’re right,” he replies mildly, keeping a vice-grip on his reactions. “But I can see that it bothers you, and I’d rather you were comfortable if we’re going to do a show-and-tell, wouldn’t you say,” and he pauses, glancing over his shoulder before flashing the elder a teasing smile, “Anima boy?”

The eye roll Qrow gives him in response is exaggerated beyond measure, but he doesn’t hesitate to follow Clover out into the snow-covered tundra. For a moment, all that passes between them is the crunching of their footsteps through icy embankments, boots and loafers ill-prepared for the knee-deep layer of crystalline white which has covered Solitas. Clover doesn’t mind the silence, nor the snow, however; he is content, for Qrow wears a slight smile on his lips reflects the stars, pale skin glowing ethereally in the moonlight.

The sounds of a transport vessel break through the relative silence from far in the distance. Clover shoots up a flare from his pack, providing an easier marker for their exact location, but he is not worried about finding where they are; the clouds have begun to clear, and just as his fingers know how to trace lines across maps of scars and lives well-lived, his eyes know how to trace the trails in the sky. He would be able to find his way home now.

The fact that Qrow is by his side makes it all the better. There is no longer a sense of distance between the two, and Qrow is smiling as he looks at him, just as he has always done for his nieces.

As they board the ship, Clover cannot help but think about what comes next. Clover had not been lying; his collection of scars is nowhere near as impressive as Qrow’s. However, if Qrow wants to learn those pathways which do exist… Clover would not mind teaching him until the elder knows those maps by heart, too.

_**-fin-** _

**Author's Note:**

> Leave a comment and let me know what you think!


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